‘You have a visitor, Chang An Lo. A guest.’
Before his eyes were even open, his hand slid to the long carving knife that lay beside him under the sheet. He had asked her to fetch one from the kitchen after that time her Russian visitor came, the one with the knowledge about the Kuomintang. If that man was back now, Chang would not die without a fight.
‘Say hello.’
Chang blinked in surprise, frowned, and started to smile. He never knew what this fox girl would do next. She was standing beside the bed holding a white rabbit. Its pink nose was twitching frantically at the scent of herbs in the room and its eyes were wide with excitement, but it sat happily in her arms and made no attempt to escape.
‘Say hello to Sun Yat-sen.’
‘Sun Yat-sen? No. He is the father of revolutionary China. A great and noble man. You insult his memory by giving his name to a miserable animal.’
‘No, no, don’t be silly. Anyway, how dare you say he is a miserable animal? He is a magnificent rabbit; just look at him. He is an honour to his namesake.’
Chang looked. The creature was indeed a fine specimen. Its body looked strong and muscular, and its coat gleamed as white as snow in sunlight. Chang envied the animal its health. And its position in her arms.
‘Very well. I greet you with respect, Sun Yat-sen.’ He bowed his head. ‘I am honoured to see you here, but I hope one day to see you on a plate. With hoisin and ginger root.’
‘Chang!’
He laughed at her expression.
Nighttime was the hardest. She always changed the bandages on his hands and the poultices on the burns on his chest before settling him down for the long dark hours. He did not let her know how much pain it caused or how long he lay awake afterward behind closed eyelids.
But pain was not all bad. It gave him something to think about when he was not thinking of Po Chu.
She sat in the chair and laid her head on the eiderdown. He could feel the gentle weight of it on his hip, though he could scarcely see more than a faint outline in the darkness. Slowly he withdrew his right hand from under the sheet by the knife. He had made her remove the heavy bandages from that hand and instead bind it just in thin gauze that left the tips of his remaining three fingers and thumb free and mobile. Her chemist’s sulphur had drawn out much of the poison and the maggots were long gone, so the hand was nearer its normal size and able to grip.
Like a thief stealing a chicken from its roost, he stole a lock of her hair. As the knife sliced off a curl at the back of her head, he almost expected her to cry out in pain but she didn’t. Just murmured in her sleep. He wondered what dreams stalked her mind. He tucked the curl under the mattress for safekeeping and then stroked her head with a feather-light touch. She murmured again and shifted her body uncomfortably in the chair. His fingers crept forward to lie in front of her lips where they could feel the warmth of her breath. He closed his eyes. Then he tangled his fingers around a strand of her hair but it was not enough. The need for her was like a gaping cavern inside his chest. Ignoring the protests of pain that flared through his hands and up to his armpits, he lifted her head and the quilt and drew her whole body onto the bed, where he let the quilt settle over her. He held his breath but she didn’t wake. She muttered, ‘I’ve spoilt the dress,’ which made him smile, but her breathing steadied into a slow easy rhythm.
She would not be angry, he told himself. There was a blanket and a sheet between his body and hers, and she was fully clothed, so it was not indecent. But he knew her mother would kill him if she found them like this, and that meant it was indecent. But the warmth of her body flowing into his flesh felt right. She spoke the truth when she said she would heal him. Not her potions or her herbs. Her. Just the musky smell of her was cleansing his blood, he could feel it.
In the dark he wrapped an arm around her and kissed her cheek.
42
She was aware of being warm. But when she stretched like a cat in the morning sunshine, she instantly realised where her limbs were lying. In his bed. Again. She opened her eyes and found his face only inches from her own, watching her. Again.
‘Good morning,’ he said softly.
‘Hello. How did I get here?’
‘You needed sleep. Not in a chair. You feel better?’
‘Much. And you? Did you sleep well?’
‘Yes.’
She knew he was lying, but it felt so odd to be having this conversation with him while she was flat on her back in bed with him that she didn’t contradict him. He reached across and touched her ear for a brief second. She noticed that the swelling in his fingers was less and she wanted him to touch her ear again. Her ear, her face, anywhere he wanted. This close to him she could see a slight stubble on his jaw but it was only light, not like Alfred’s. Chang’s chest was hairless, and she decided she liked that. That smoothness.
They lapsed into silence, just staring at each other, but the silence was easy, not stiff or stilted. It felt as natural as the sunlight that spilled under the curtain, so that when she leaned toward him after a while and gently kissed his lips, there was no embarrassment, just a sense of wholeness. And a fierce sense of wanting more. The wanting was so strong it made her body ache. But just when she least expected it, he closed his eyes and shut her out. The disappointment made her swallow hard, but she reminded herself he was ill, seriously ill, and needed rest. When she slid out of the bed, he did not try to stop her. He lay there breathing hard, as if his chest hurt, his dark head immobile on the pillow that still bore the imprint of her own.
She gathered together some fresh clothes and went to the bathroom. Gospodi! She must stink. She ran a bath and emptied a stream of her mother’s bright green bubble bath into it, plunged in, and scrubbed herself hard. To scrub the ache away. Afterward she wrapped her wet hair in a towel and put on her other dress and the new lambswool cardigan Valentina had bought her, all soft and primrose yellow.
She looked in the mirror above the washbasin, trying to see what Chang would see, but she couldn’t. There was some flesh on her bones these days, which was an improvement. And it seemed that her mother was right because in the last few months the good eating, which was thanks to Alfred, had filled out not only her cheeks, but her breasts too. They weren’t as good as Polly’s but they were getting there.
She smiled. At the mirror. And was surprised by what she saw. It was a whole new smile.
When the doorbell rang this time, Lydia was half expecting it.
‘It’ll be Polly,’ she said and went down to open the front door.
‘Hello, Lyd, I’ve come to see how you’re getting on. Bit lonely?’
‘Oh Polly, now is not a good time actually. I’m just . . .’
‘Hello, Lydia, dear. My word, you are looking well. Positively blooming. And that colour really suits you.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Mason. No need to check up on me, honestly. I’m doing fine.’
‘I’m just making sure you are managing all right, as I promised Mr Parker I would. We were worried the bomb might have frightened you yesterday, weren’t we, Polly?’
‘I wasn’t. I thought it was exciting.’ Polly grinned. ‘I told Mummy you wouldn’t be scared.’
‘Have you time for a few of your favourites?’ Anthea Mason held up the cake tin in her hand and smiled enticingly. ‘Macaroons.’
Lydia was not exactly in the mood for macaroons.
‘Mummy made them specially,’ Polly said pointedly and beamed when Lydia stepped back into the hall, allowing them to enter.
She seated them in the drawing room.
‘Isn’t this a pretty room?’ Anthea Mason said cheerily. ‘Adorable colours.’
Lydia gave it a glance. ‘The colours are Mama’s and the furniture is Mr Parker’s.’
The cocktail cabinet and leather chesterfield were a bit dark and gloomy for Lydia’s taste but her mother had already started to soften their impact with her own personal touches, warm textured cushions and curtains. But at the moment Lydia�
��s mind was on other things. She remained standing, shifting from foot to foot, pushing a toe into the thick Chinese carpet.
‘How’s Sun Yat-sen?’
‘Fine.’
‘And the cook? Is he looking after you?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you’re eating well?’
‘Yes.’
‘But I’m sure you have room for one of these, don’t you, dear?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘A cup of tea perhaps?’
‘Oh. Right. I’ll go and make one.’
‘Ask the cook to do it, dear. I know you’ve dispensed with your houseboy, though for the life of me I can’t understand why.’
‘I won’t be long.’
She headed quickly for the kitchen, made a hurried pot of tea, carried it on a tray back into the drawing room, and froze.
‘Where’s Polly?’
‘Oh, I think she popped upstairs to take a peek at your bedroom, dear. You don’t mind, do you?’
Lydia dumped the tray and ran.
She was too late. Polly was standing in the bedroom. Her cheeks were scorched red and she was absolutely rigid, staring at Chang An Lo. He lay in the bed and was clutching the carving knife in his hand.
‘Oh, bloody hell, Polly, you should have waited.’ Lydia seized her friend’s shoulder and swung her around to face her. ‘Listen to me. You must say nothing. Do you hear? Nothing to anyone. Not even your mother.’
Polly’s eyes strayed back to Chang and regarded him in the same way she would a tiger in Lydia’s bed. ‘Who is he?’
‘A friend.’
Polly’s eyes widened. ‘Not the one from the alleyway? The Communist?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s he doing here?’
‘He’s injured. Polly, if you tell anyone, it will be dangerous for him. You must keep quiet or he could be caught and killed.’
Polly gasped and ran a nervous hand through her bangs, unintentionally flipping them up in a jerky gesture that revealed an ugly bruise on her forehead. The sight of it made Lydia angry.
‘And don’t ever tell your father about Chang An Lo either, will you? Promise me.’ Lydia put her arms around Polly. ‘It’s all right, don’t get in a flap about it. We’ve done nothing wrong.’
Polly stared at her in disbelief. ‘Don’t you think keeping a Chinese man in your bed while your mother is away is wrong?’
‘No, I’m just nursing him, that’s all. There’s nothing wrong in it. Anyway, he’ll be gone as soon as he’s well enough, I swear.’ Lydia looked hard into Polly’s eyes and saw something there that made her stomach drop.
‘I still don’t think it’s right,’ Polly said quietly.
‘Please, Polly.’
‘But if I told my mother . . .’
‘No, don’t tell anyone. You must remain silent about this.’ She held on to her friend’s wrist and gave it a little squeeze. ‘For my sake.’ Suddenly she kissed Polly’s cheek and murmured, ‘Please, Polly. Do it for me.’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Lydia said quietly as she limped Chang An Lo up and down the room. ‘I’ve worked out what to do on Saturday.’
Chang was sweating. The effort was killing him but he wouldn’t stop.
‘Saturday I leave.’
Her throat tightened. It was the first time he’d said it. ‘No, that’s my point. You can stay.’
He turned his head and looked at her with a slow smile. ‘Ah yes, your mother and new father will be happy to welcome me as their guest.’
‘I want you to stay.’
His arm around her shoulders pulled her closer but he didn’t cease his shuffle.
‘You see, I’ve worked out that you can stay in the shed, the one Sun Yat-sen is in. I’ve put a padlock on it, so no one will be able to open it except me. They’ll never know you’re in there. Alfred and my mother will be too busy with each other to notice and I’ve put all the gardener’s things in the back of the garage, so . . .’
He chuckled. A rich mischievous sound that was so full of life it made her pulse thud with delight.
‘I love you, Lydia Ivanova,’ he laughed. ‘Not even the gods can stop you.’
He hadn’t said no. That was the main thing. He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no. She held on to that.
By the evening he was exhausted and seemed to fall into a deep troubled sleep. He moaned and muttered in his dreams, but it was in Mandarin. They had both been severely rattled by Polly’s intrusion, but Lydia had assured Chang that her friend would say nothing. She was pleased her own voice sounded so confident and wished she could be certain of it herself. Polly had been shocked. No telling how she’d react when she’d had time to think about it.
‘Polly,’ she murmured to herself, ‘don’t let me down.’
As the night rolled in, she gazed out the window before she closed the curtains and, considering the precarious position she was in, she felt extraordinarily safe. She knew it was absurd. So absurd it made her laugh out loud. A known Communist in her bed, her mother about to return and a prickly new stepfather coming to turn her world upside down, yet . . . still. She felt good.
She watched a bedraggled pheasant pick its way over the snow on the back lawn, scratching for grubs, and for the first time in her life it dawned on her what it was like to be on the inside. No longer a hungry creature out in the snow. She turned her head away from the cold wintry scene outside and studied her room. It was warm. It was softly lit by the green lamp. There was food on a tray and a white nightdress waiting on a chair. This is how people were supposed to live. But she knew it wasn’t the nightdress or the tray that was making her feel so good.
It was having Chang An Lo in her bed.
He woke her in the night.
She was lying on the bed. Like the night before, under the eiderdown but on top of the blanket. She had cleaned her teeth, put on the pretty nightdress, and taken up her position beside him in the bed while he was asleep. The lamp was off and in the silent mix of shadows in the room her senses slowly grew more alert. She could hear his breathing and smell the male scent of his skin. She did not hurry to fall asleep.
‘Lydia.’ His hand was on her arm, the grip strong.
Instantly she was awake. ‘What is it? Is the pain worse?’
He was shaking. She could hear his teeth. She sat up.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Just the pain of the dreams.’
She lay on her side and wrapped an arm over his chest, holding him tight to her. Even through the blanket she could feel the pounding of his heart. He rested his damp cheek against her forehead, drew a deep breath, and released it slowly. For a long time they lay like that.
‘You never asked,’ he said at last into the darkness of the room.
‘Asked what?’
‘What happened?’
‘I thought if you wanted me to know, you’d tell me.’
He nodded.
‘But maybe if you tell me now, it will be released and leave your dreams in peace.’
He breathed deeply again and when he spoke his voice was flat and hard. ‘There is not much to tell. It was simple. They stripped me and put me in a metal crate. I survived. Three months, perhaps more. I’m no longer clear. A box with air holes. An arm’s length square, the same high. They fed me when they felt like it, so most of the time they didn’t. They only took me out of the box for amusement. Finger cutting. Chest branding. Other things. I don’t want your ears to hear.’
Lydia lifted a hand and stroked his cheek, his throat, long slow strokes. But she didn’t speak.
‘One day they grew careless. They left knives too close while they played their games with me. They believed I was a dead rag. No threat to them. But they were wrong. My hand still knew how to sink a blade into a well-fed stomach.’
His words stopped. The shaking had passed. She could feel the anger in him, like a coat of steel under his skin.
‘I escaped. But I could go to no one who was known to be my friend. It w
as too dangerous.’
‘So you went to Tan Wah.’
‘Yes. Nobody knew of him. The hovels are used by opium addicts. No one goes there. I thought he was safe.’ He let out a low-throated groan. ‘I was mistaken.’
‘No, Chang An Lo, no. You were right. He died only because of me. Because of my stupid coat and somebody else’s greed. I’m sorry.’
‘We are both sorry, Tan Wah,’ he whispered.
The silence in the room was short-lived because Lydia’s own anger was swirling up in her.
‘Who did these things to you? Who are they? The Black Snakes? Or the Kuomintang? Tell me.’
He moved his head on the pillow and looked at her. It was too dark to make out his expression but her fingers touched his face and she was amazed to feel a smile curving his lips.
‘Why do you need to know, Lydia? Will you rush out and kill them for me?’
‘It’s what they deserve.’
He gave a soft laugh and moved closer.
‘Is it hard to kill someone?’ she whispered.
‘Lydia, you would kill a man if you had to.’
Then he kissed her lips and it wasn’t gentle this time. It was a fierce hungry kiss that made the ache flare throughout her body.
‘Who was it?’ she asked again when she drew breath.
‘You never give up.’
‘Who?’
He sighed. ‘It was Feng Po Chu. His father, Feng Tu Hong, is the leader of the Black Snakes and the president of the council.’
‘Po Chu? The one who stole the explosives? Why did he do this to you?’
‘Because I did something. It made him lose face.’
‘What kind of something?’
Chang was silent at first and she thought he was going to keep his secrets from her, but slowly he started to speak. ‘I walked him naked and bound to his father and made him beg. I thought I had the protection of Feng Tu Hong but . . .’ He paused and traced a finger around the curve of her ear. ‘I was wrong.’
Lydia abruptly recalled what Mr Theo had told her about Chang making a deal with Feng, and she nodded. ‘Thank you. Now I know.’
The Russian Concubine Page 40
